


Baby Leave the Ankle Weights On

by huffspuffsblows, ladyburrito



Series: The Apartments at 169 Tang Terrace [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), DOGS (Manga), Gotham City Sirens (Comics), Kill la Kill (Anime & Manga), Naruto, Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Multi, Please sit back and enjoy our nonsense, This will literally not make sense to anyone but the writers, Welcome to our Nightmare, Y'all don't know us but you're about to hate us, im sorry, this is fanfic on crack cocaine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2019-10-21 22:03:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17650724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huffspuffsblows/pseuds/huffspuffsblows, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyburrito/pseuds/ladyburrito
Summary: When rent is cheaper than tits, things like this happen. The trashheap of an apartment, a bunch of people trying to prove baby boomers wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is literally nothing I can say to prepare you for what you’re about to read. 
> 
>  
> 
> Think; Friends au, but it’s every character two best friends have role played together. 
> 
> At least we think we’re funny.

The perfect place to have a cigarette in the morning (or whatever time he deems asscrack of dawn enough to rouse from slumber) is his sanctuary: the toilet. Plus it's the only room with a lock in the entirety of their shitty little apartment. The battle for first dibs is dirty, cheap, and loud. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Today, Dave T. Nails has won, and his victory music is comprised of light humming in the form of smooth jazz and his brother's distressed screams of his critical need to shit from outside the door. 

All in all it's a good start to the day. It's bright outside, something he revels in thanks to the window he's opened a crack. The rays of the sun stream in to bathe lightly freckled shoulders in early afternoon light, relaxing as hell [not enough to fall asleep on the can though]. The cracked and chipped tile beneath his feet is cold but he wiggles his toes anyway, in perfect time with the tune on his lips and the wisps of smoke which sail above his head with every slow exhale through the press of his lips.

Badou's gotten to the bargaining step in the stages of grief, his nails scrape against the door in long, dragging noises [enough to make you grit your teeth] to accompany his whines and curses. [What is Dave gonna do with an albino fuckwad partner who's afraid of pussy, anyway??? Can't trade Heine for a pair of Jordans, honestly]

Basically it's just another normal day. Peaceful. The whole shebang. Dave plucks the cigarette from his mouth in order to tap ash into the sink, which runs with short bursts of water [sometimes he needs some more accompaniment music to speed things along, alright, fuck off]. When his gaze turns from the tiles and starts to flicker towards the sink he sees something in the corner of his eye, which in turn makes him pause, cigarette held mid-air. 

His gaze is drawn to the bathtub. Like every other inglorious piece of garbage appliance in the place it's old. Hard water calcium deposits mingled with soap has made it hard to determine whether or not the original color of the goddamn thing was gray or white. Possibly yellow at some point in time back in the 80's. That nifty little soap ledge hangs on by a thread of hard water rust and mold. Half the tiles are missing, the wood beneath is soaked no matter how many days either of them have gone without showers, hence the mold--

It's fucking gross, alright, but that's not what Dave is concerned about in this thrilling moment of ginger dickhole history. No, it's the ginormous fucking rat with teeth big enough to bite off a man's foreskin and turn it into a goddamn balloon animal, who sits halfway over the edge of the tub, it's gaze meeting Dave's for one heart stopping moment. The kind of moment they write movies about with bloated budgets. The kind of story you wouldn't want to write home to mom about because she'd get the whole book series and be really nasty about her needs.

A blood curdling scream shatters the moment and the sound barrier, a scream Dave will not recognize and will never admit to being beyond the octave of Cool Broseph. 

[What he'll register later will be Badou's cackle from outside and, "Did you get the skin caught in your zipper? Serves you right, you uneducated goose dick!" Later, much later, he'll feel a sense of pride for Badou's reading grade level but for now--]

Pants around his ankles, dick flapping in an SOS Morse code to God, Jesus, Mr. Rogers, anyone. The worst part is the huge fucking menace [the rat, not his dick this time] isn't more afraid of him than he is [NOT!!!] of it: it continues to stare, does that squinty thing animals do when they're happy and the writer in Dave wonders just what is so satisfying about startling a grown man on the toilet. 

[the innermost part of him knows exactly what's so satisfying. He refuses to believe this is karma]

However, Dave's rescuer isn't wearing tweed or a weird tie, nor are sandals to be found on blessed water resistant feet. No, what chokes out Badou's triumphant gloating from outside busts the door open in three inch white Gogo boots is a _babe_. If Dave's heart wasn't already in his throat attempting to choke the life out of him, said heart would have stopped the second he laid eyes on those long legs. Violet eyes barely spare him and his dick problems a glance, they're narrowed on the rat. 

Perfectly manicured fingers curl over her hips and she cocks her head at the little fuck. By now Dave has yanked his pants up mostly over the round of his ass, tucked himself back in and held on to the remnants of his soul that are trying to flee by the very edges.

Pretty lips part, her mouth opens.

"Eugene! I knew all I had to do was follow the screams and I'd find you. You can't be running off like that, even if Butch didn't get you the right food." That shrill voice is more chalkboard scraping than angelic. 

The cold hard bitch expression softens into something caring, maternal even, as she lifts a hand to crook a finger at the weird pet.

"C'mon home to mama. We can punish him together." To Dave's astonishment [And Badou's, he spots his brother peeking around the door like a true Nails, wide eyed, cigaretteless, and shitless] the little bastard promptly climbs out of the tub to scurry over to her side, tail brushing against one of her ankles in a comforting manner, as if this behemoth of a woman was worried.

Aside from the tap running it's so silent a fly's fart would be audible. Only when the woman is satisfied her "Eugene" has stopped pouting does she fix that gaze on Dave. It sweeps over him, calculating, his breath catches in his throat and his pulse quickens, the romantic writer within him whom he thought was dead stirs and then those red, red lips part once more--

"Don't forget to wipe, you peasant." She leaves as quickly as she busted in, with a flick of blonde hair over one shoulder and the sashay of her ass. Dave and Badou watch her go in a kind of understanding silence. 

Then Badou slips in, gaze half on his brother and half on their neighbor's exit strategy. He reaches a hand out as if to put it on his shoulder, then thinks better of it because Dave's a nasty fuck who hasn't washed his hands.

"Welp. Yet another neighbor who's seen your dirty dick." 

He makes a clicking noise with his tongue, shakes that weary red head of his as if he's ashamed [and really, he's mortified and this is all he can do to stop from screaming, this, which is make fun of his brother] but there's no concealing the upturned corners of his mouth, the patented asshole grin. Exasperated, exaggerated sighs aside.

"You said we'd make a new start, bro. You said things would be different. But here it is, the same ol' shit come round again."

Dave pulls his gaze away from the doorway to the sink, where his cigarette sits and smolders.

"Well little brother...shit happens. I guess your little dirty dick'll just have to bring up its GPA, eh?" Bantering with his brother always manages to breathe life back into his body even when all hope seems to die. 

A beat. 

"Now get the fuck out, I've got a latecomer to the game." 

Badou's face contorts with rage, this time he _does_ [reluctantly] put his hand on Dave, four fingers squeeze his shoulder painfully.

"Fuck off, your latecomer can go to hell! I--" His expression morphs into something perplexed, crimson brows furrowed. "Actually I think seeing that banshee bust in made me clench." 

"I'm so glad that priest's insurance is so great or else your bleaching job down there would be in danger huh." 

"Go eat twelve rat dicks. And don't bother to make a fuss at the land lady about this shit, she probably breeds those things in her snatch."


	2. its 2am, she won't put out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a night in....we all deserve a peaceful night in, right?   
> Wrong. We do not.

 

 

There's nothing quite like relaxing in a newly scrubbed tub at 2am, sunk to the shoulders in bubbles and a glass of wine at your elbow.

"I don't understand how ya keep missing this, Red! He does it like clockwork at least four times a week, the windows _wide open_ like it's summer or he's setting his own honey fly trap. Well I'll do more than just bite, my dear bee. We're having a stake out!"

Believe it or not, what makes it perfect is the chittering blonde currently seated on the closed toilet seat, animated as she multitasks between stake out schematics and bringing the edge of a razor over one long soapy leg which is stretched over the edge of the sink where the water runs slowly.

She pauses mid-swipe, expression thoughtful. "Maybe with actual steaks. And twice baked potatoes, doesn't that sound _good_?"

Ivy makes a noncommittal sound knowing Harley will easily translate, sinks deeper into the warm water and bubbles, and considers. With wine. It'd be nice to window shop someone quiet, someone with some class and a grade A ass.

[Which doesn't necessarily mean there's a lacking of Ass Class around here but actual class...sometimes the lack of it is so stifling she feels like her roots have been strangled right in the soil]

"A little wine, dine, and our _wiles-y eye-ses_ and he'll definitely come buzzing around," Harley continues, the grin stretched across her face doubly triumphant, for she's finished up one leg in record time and only nicked herself a little bit.

"So how will we decide?" Ivy pipes in, her tone even. The bubbles are thoroughly relaxing every single node and note of her body and she keeps slinking lower and lower into the water. It's been a long week and crime definitely pays. Her lips form a smirk. "The usual way, or would you like to draw straws for this bee? His color scheme matches yours but I don't know if even your gym feats can deal with that. He might need a green thumb."

The clatter of the razor's plastic against the sink edge draws her eyes open and on her partner, whose own mouth parts in a moue of disapproval.

[too adorable not to pay attention to]

"You can't just use your thumb, Pam-a-lamb! Gee, it's no wonder your guys are green. They don't like that kinda stuff, believe me." The way she says it has Ivy deciding yes, she absolutely believes Harley. The confession has her sinking a couple more inches into the water, eyes lidded and mouth tipped down.

"The usual way works just fine with me. The same stakes. I'll show you, I'll climb him like a mountain, haha!"

That bubbly laugh raises her spirit the second the sound seeps into her ears and over her muscles, and somehow she can't be too grossed out forever. The other woman didn't mention _that asshole_ aside from in passing, she (unfortunately....) assumes. And if that's not a victory then she doesn't know what is.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Most people hate nights like these-- its that hint of biting cold in the spring time when plants are still susceptible to frost, when the dew is so delicate on the leaves which attempt to warm beneath the rays of sun to come. It's the eerie wind that howls through the darkness and keeps you awake with eyelids weighed by anvils until the sun comes to chase away the moon.

It's lounging in bed with around seven dogs squeezed everywhichway, even against his ass [but that's okay because that's Extra Warmth and perhaps a training regimen for their canine compadres?], the soothing warm weight of Kakashi pressed against him, matching hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. It comes from knowing all he need do is look over and his Cool and Hip Rival is right there at arms reach. Mask pulled over his mouth but not the bridge of his nose, so it hangs loose around his jaw.

So Gai is content, yes, to just bask in this warmth and wait for slumber to overtake him, which is when Kakashi will flip off the light [only because he doesn't want Gai to roll over, big bushy eyebrows all...bush-like, and tell him he'll strain his eyes if he keeps this up. How will they Commence their Staring Contest during Coitus Training?]. Then he'll gather the other shinobi in his arms, and Kakashi will grumble and huff but he'll go along with it because sleep is settling upon their limbs even as Kakashi wraps his arms around Gai's middle.

He only notices his eyes had closed during the daydream when they fly open at the sensation of Kakashi flipping on the bedside lamp, his eye is solemn as they gaze at one another.

A sultry [what he calls it] grin winds along Gai's mouth. How charming. "What is it, Beloved Rival? Are you finally tired of straining your eye and wish to Strain something else with me?"

A muffled huff of laughter breaks from Kakashi's mouth but he doesn't roll his eye [a telling gesture]. "Come with me."

Gai's heart beats just a little bit faster, he swallows hard and the grin widens into something decidedly peckish. "I will, Rival, I will! Sweet and slow, I'll come-"

Kakashi sighs. "No, I mean come outside with me. Something's going to happen. Don't you feel it?" That said, he immediately vacates the room [the dogs, Gai has noticed, are already pattering to the door in a little herd. Another telling move] feet squashed into slippers.

[you know what they say, animals can sense disaster from miles away. just not this beastly bedmate]

What Gai Feels is the boner of Kakashimas Past, to be honest.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

He's awoken by hands jostling his shoulder more than the gaze burning into his face. Badou snorts and snuffles, smacks wet lips and blinks blearily into the face of his brother, who stares down at him intently.

One hand makes for the gun hidden beneath his pillow [hoping if this is _it_ he's fast enough to keep his throat from being torn open or a bullet from sliding home between his eyes, fast enough to dodge the empty, dead stare and the limbs moving mechanically towards his goddamn end just for the hell of it, just for instinct] before his vision even clears. Badou's pulse is caught between his throat and his heart like a chunk of vomit.

But Dave's eyes aren't the empty of the damned; those pea green peepers brim with curiosity and a growing concern. [growing like a fungus, enough to brush off the resigned acceptance in them regarding his particular reaction]

"Do you smell that?" He demands, fingers tightening a little too much at Badou's shoulder [he can feel the bruises from the last job sting in answer, probably yellowing by now] and causing him to groan, roll his shoulder to shift away from the pain.

Badou's entire continence slumps as he slides off his elbows and flops back onto the bed, annoyance cracking in his voice as he snarls, "I don't wanna smell your fucking fart! I already know what you ate for dinner, I win the game this time. So fuck off."

_Some_ people work for a goddamn living. However, Dave's mouth doesn't bow into that strained laughter that rattles at the bottom of his lungs lately. No, his mouth turns into a grim frown, eyes hard.

"We need to get out of here. Right now." His tone books no argument, but in the bleary, sleepy warmth of slumber still clinging to his lashes and his limbs, Badou successfully shakes off his hand and face plants back onto the bed.

"Go eat a crusty whale's blowhole. Just open a window and breathe through your fat mouth."

Dave has but a moment to growl low in his throat and scrabble for a tangle of Badou's hair because _how dare he disrespect Shamu this early in the fucking morning_ before the earth shattering wail of the fire alarm starts to blare.

Badou jack knifes up in bed, makes a grab for his eyepatch and decidedly doesn't make eyecontact. He already knows.

"Stow the bitch face, bitch. Not all of us have our ears to the ground like most animals."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"If you _say it_ you will be hereby taking the scenic route out the window instead of the stairs to safety," Cassidy shouts over the alarm, jaw locked and hair flying, arms full of too many balls to be comfortable with, ironically. [Pokeballs, that is, don't be gross she's not goddamn Agatha]

Her ever present partner (aside from the fucking rodent) and twin of her bangs, Butch, feels a hysterical bubble of laughter threaten to burst from his slanted mouth.

"Say what? I told ya so? _Nahnah_ , I ain't gonna say that at all! I was gonna talk about the fuckin' weather outside, duh," he can't help with the snark, honest! He's shoving countless counterfeit pokeballs into a duffle along with sets of clothes and _one pair of goddamn underwear, is this it_?! His own Pokemon were nestled safely and shaking with worry within their own pokeballs whilst Eugene's nasty ass was draped across one of Cassidy's shoulders.

" _What did you say_?!" That's an ear shattering roar he and his asshole know very well.

"I said _we should see whether or not they're onto us when we get outta here_!" Butch covers his own ass full-assedly, as usual, his back toward her so she can't read his lips while he contemplates the socks his grandma sent him two Christmases ago.

Either she decided throwing him out the window isn't worth the risk of smoke inhalation or having not heard him, Cassidy sends him one last glare, then kicks the bathroom door, where smoke spills out endlessly, closed.

"How the hell was I supposed to know it wasn't flammable?! The instructions weren't clear at all," Cassidy grumbles to herself before she hauls one last load of shit over her opposite shoulder, promptly bolts out the door, her shit packed, the least important shit (i.e Butch) left behind.

Butch sighs and looks mournfully about the room, hopefully not for the last time. He really hopes this won't be the one time, the one fated moment they finally burn down this shithole. He'd miss it too much, and the deep seated broships can't be replaced, not even by Cassidy's tits. [Her tits, however, could distract him for at least 5 years]

Maybe he should get her torch lessons for her birthday. Dave would agree that'd get lots of pussy, right?

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thank fuck she naturally burned hot or else her tits would be as hard as ice from the frigid spring air, even beneath her skin tight, yet fluffy, bathrobe.

"Is that the last of those little shits? Your flabby ass is going back in there to get any stragglers if not. They're not going to get out of the rent that easily," Agatha proclaims, her eyes sweeping over the residents of their dingy little apartment complex in what would be a motherly fashion for anyone but the giant cootch monster. No, she does a headcount. If even one of the little bastards is missing that's less rent and more trouble for her own ass.

A familiar booming laugh makes her shoulders spike up around her ears, irritation simultaneously spiking when that piece of rotting zombie gooch opens his mouth.

"Why not let one of the mouth watering firemen rescue 'em? Or are you too worried your musk has gotten to the kids and it'll keep 'em from doing their jobs? Nah, they'll probably take one look at your swollen third nipple and go the other way, the kids be damned." His belly quivers from the force of his laughter.

The youngsters wisely turn their gazes away from the tit war that ensues and count their own fingers and toes, cast subtle glances about each other to make sure they're all in one piece-- not because they _care_ but because none of them want to be left with a gaping butthole shaped hole in their little group where one of them should be.

"Shit, she's still in there," Dave groans, prompting the groans of his fellow residents to join in a compelling orchestra of exasperation and ill timed belching. [what class, what grace, what glares that gains from a few choice classy individuals and an aristocratic sniff]

Badou shivers, draws his arms through the sleeves of his tee in order to wrap them around himself, and sorely wishes he had a third arm so he could light a cigarette at the same time. The unlit one in his mouth is lonely.

"Kay, so do we do the usual shit?" he inquires about the group, "Draw straws or bra hooks or whatever?"

"I don't wear a bra," Cassidy and Gai retort in unison, mirroring confusion and acceptance, which draws several more groans of disdain and horror throughout the group. And maybe a little vomit here and there.

[in the background there are two more answers before the tit war is back on again, with the sharp slap of skin and the hurl of insults and nipple hair]

"Are you really the best person to trust with a plan when you're most likely the one responsible? Again," Kakashi drawls, the usual laziness pressed out of him from the shoulders to his single eye, replaced with tension and the spring-loaded need to _do something_. He almost didn't get out without his books this time, how could he have managed?!

Badou's shoulders pull forward and he puffs up his chest, and his mouth curls on one side, the aggravated twin to his lopsided grin when he's about to say something stupid, but still retaining that Stupid Incoming recessive gene.

[Dave tucks an unlit cigarette behind his ear and rolls one shoulder, getting ready]

[Butch meets Cassidy's eyes and nods when she motions with a finger across her throat _keep your mouth shut or I'll shut you up_ ]

"Why, cause I'm ginger? You insurance agent bastards don't have the devil where you're from, or souls, so I don't wanna hear that _shit_ , ya feel me?" Badou spits, takes one steps forward, and promptly just stands there.

["Ninja insurance agents," Dave adds helpfully.

"Please stop watching those shows and get a goddamn job," Badou adds just as helpfully.]

"I'm merely stating a common theory. You're the biggest smoker around here and you've fallen asleep on the toilet before. What's to stop you from falling asleep with a lit cigarette?"

"Oh _yeah_? Well what about that old bitch. She could've been cooking some male hookers in her oven and forgot she left it on."

Now Cassidy's got to set the record and the science straight. She knows these things, apparently. "No, the flames of hell would reject her. Satan doesn't want her."

Kakashi and Badou peer at each other, then at Cassidy [still refusing to Look at the Tit Battle].

They nod as one.  
"Alright, good point."  
"Definitely. But that doesn't change the issue here--"

"Hey, look! Some Brave Soul is coming! Let's praise them in Victorious Song when they get here!" Gai exclaims, and points out this mysterious figure twice as tall as most of the males gathered round as they emerge from the smoke.

What greets them is--

"Once again you lot were completely _useless_." Poison Ivy stoops over to gently deposit her charge, an unconscious Harley Quinn, onto a comfortable bed of flowers and leaves. "You people wouldn't even be worth plant food at this rate," she continues, utterly unimpressed. She cards a hand through Harley's soft hair and rolls her eyes at the guilty faces she knows are aimed her way.

[minus the Titty Warriors and Cassidy]

"Don't fret, Peony Flower!" Gai booms, painting a smile on his face sure to cheer up the depressed Youths, "We'll sing a song of Victory, because we've all made it! Once again!" His voice grows choked by grateful tears and everyone's stomachs drop uncomfortably at the display.

"I'd rather make it differently," Butch mutters, which is followed by affirmative grunts from the Nails brothers. It isn't enough to make Gai stop his songs of victory and strength; Kakashi has since given up, it's too fucking early. So he finds a comfortable seat on the pavement, then cracks open one of his books.

So that's how the Smoke Break Boys find themselves seated in a circle around Butch's bag with the strange shaped lumps sticking out, quiet discussion about this bra hook thing enough to take their attention away from the background noises. Butch does not, indeed, want to go over to the smoking apartment, find a fire, and light his cigarette, so after some wheedling Badou rolls his eye and presses the end of his cigarette to his.

["You can't do that shit with dudes though, man. That's essentially touching dicks. I only did this cause we're bros."

"I'd never touch my cigarette dick to yours though, dude, this has gotta be some other brother you've got."

" _What was that_ , you got a date with Shamu? Better get your sunday best, brotha."]

That is also how Harley awakens, firstly disappointed by the lack of hot firemen, but happy to play a round of cards with Cassidy, Ivy and Eugene, featuring Gai's powerful and compelling tunes.

Eventually, to everyone but Harley's chagrin, they find themselves joining on occasion. And _that_ is how the firecrew finds them half an hour later and once again figure it was a drunken accident. All in all the cold spring night wasn't a total bust, and as Gai stated, Bonds were strengthened by Song, Love, and Luck.

[They still had homes by the time the sun rose and Agatha did not gain yet another sexual harassment case to her Eternal Cootch]


	3. marks come before, marks come after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley and Badou share a sweet moment.

Nights like these, he likes to take the scenic route home. Just to see how long it takes him to collect the pieces of his thoughts that have inevitably been chased away by fear and the fine edge of desperation and the smell of his own sweat and blood in the air. Just to shake off that tension coiled from his stomach to the tips of his trigger fingers, jaw locked. 

It's reasonably late by even the seediest of standards when he finally shuffles into the apartment he shares with his brother, somehow he remembers to toe out of his dust caked shoes just inside the door 

[where he knows Dave will trip over them as sure as rain] before, guided by the low lamp on the coffee table with the too-short cord, he drags himself to his room. It's pitch black inside but Badou doesn't bother to flip on the light, more or less knows how to stumble over take out cartons, dirty boxers and piles and piles of papers onto the bed, where he belly flops. A wheezy exhale of gratitude rushes from his mouth as he closes his eye, lets the muffled traffic sounds and someones alarm going off two blocks down wash over him, soothe him into a sense of security [false, because you're never secure here, not even on your own toilet].

The futility of security is further driven home as the bed dips with [familiar, tantalizing] weight; what stops his fingers just as they brush against the gun beside his head are the warm, soft pads of thumbs that trace a line over his shoulders, warmth radiating right through the cloth. She leans in, blonde hair [smells like goddamn strawberries and raw meat] itches and tickles at his neck where it spills into his jumper. 

"You are very late, Patches. Don't ya know it's rude to keep a lady waiting? That's what scullery maids and ladies- _in_ -waiting are for." A huff escapes those pretty lips, and though he thankfully doesn't see it hang in the air like mist, he feels it ruffle his hair, the short strands at the back of his neck stand on end. 

His reply is muffled due to refusing to leave the sanctity of his pillow. "Gee, sorry I didn't know I was on the job. Usually I'm conscious of my responsibilities so I can run from some of 'em. Next time I see a lady I'll remember that." 

He hears that high pitched, tell-tale _hmph_ and unearths his face from the pillow so he can see it; Badou's sight has adjusted to the dark enough to where he can make out the soft shape of her face beside him, the shadow the moue of her mouth makes when she pouts, the whites of those too big blue eyes. 

In a flurry of motion and hair she sits up, arms crossed over her chest, brows knit. "I came all this way to see you and this is how you're gonna be? I'll just go see my babies instead, at least they slobber!" Before she can trounce off he's jackknifed up in bed onto his knees, palm catching the curve of one narrow shoulder. He can see her turn her face towards him, chin still lifted in a prime sulk. 

"C'mon, I was just kidding. I'm off the clock but that doesn't mean I can't take on a little extra assignment...a very hot assignment. I might get burned on this one," Badou murmurs, lips already formed into a smirk when he leans in to press his mouth to hers, pulls her closer by the shoulder, fingers unknowingly tightening. 

Instead of melting in his arms, flush up against his chest and giggling, Harley lets out a whimper and jerks away, spine bowed, which causes him to let go. His hand comes away wet. 

"What the hell....?" The coppery, overly familiar smell of blood clues him in right away, he hardly has to look at her pained face to know she's _hurt_. 

"Jesus _fuck_ , why the hell didn't you say you were hurt! Now's not the time to be fooling around." In an instant he heaves himself over to the side of the bed, snaps on the lamp, swivels to look at her--

The sheepish expression of one Harley Quinn greets him, uniform [if you can call the tight little number that, and he does, just not the one he'd do her in--] in tatters and covered in bloody cuts. Bruises of purple come yellow adorn her pretty face, which is pale and drawn with pain. But her eyes are ever fierce, "I wouldn't be worried about makin' a mess in this sty, kid. If you're that worried about me bringin' trouble--" 

All of a sudden Harley actually seems intent to leave, no more teasing this time [rejection burns in her chest, or maybe it's blood loss?], face twisted with a too-stony-for-Harley look, and it's only Badou's voice, strained and reedy but full of steel, that stops her:

" _Sit your ass down_! You're not leaving like that. If _you're_ that worried about makin' a mess Miss-raw-meat-in-the-tub, we'll use Dave's sheets."

Well what can she say? Harley's always been a sucker for passionate words thrown around with power. That's exactly how she finds herself topless and seated on a ripped and patched up bean bag chair of royal purple, situated between Badou's knees while he gets the expanse of the bed. ["So I can have the whole survey of the land. Don't act like you don't love the chair, either, I see that bouncin' urge in you."

She does bounce, just a little, and he feels the tension in her back lessen just a smidge]

Badou quickly and methodically cleans the deep graze of a bullet in one shoulder. Thankfully it hadn't penetrated her shoulder, just razed the skin to tatters, and there was a lot of blood to blot away. This close, he can smell the anxious sweat on her skin, the rust and dust of warehouses, the strawberry shampoo of her hair. There's a band of sweat and dirt around her ribs, tinted red against her skin, against the cuts and the natural mark of wear and tear from the fabric. [he knows without looking she has a matching one around her waist] 

Harley's quiet-- for her, anyway. The constant chatter not present, she throws in comments and anecdotes every now and again, bathing the two of them in a stony tension that goes hand in hand with the sound of the gauze torn from it's packaging and the little grunts she makes every time he swipes a cloth over the wound. She has a lot of scars. Many he doesn't know, can only guess, haven't happened, will never know or touch with tongue or teeth. A burn, from cheap acid flowers, he guesses. He traces a thumb over the raised, red skin of her lower back and wonders if she gave a kidney or got one. [probably gave, she was always giving, giving, _giving_ and for what?]

Dark scars pepper her upper arm from a shotgun he knows too well [holding her shaking form in her arms while she made a wise crack about turtles in crocs, or maybe it was frogs and open toed shoes? because she knew he was _this_ close to hysterical, was dangerously out of cigarettes, his fingers made four perfect marks where he held her close and desperate while old man Mankanshoku prattled on to his wife and made him more and more nervous] are at least healing nicely. 

[knowing she'd come to him then, and now, fills him with a warmth that's foreign to him]

"Tapioca." The sound of her voice startles him so much he almost drops the bandage, curses.  
" _Haaaah_?"   
"If I popped outta a big vat of the stuff, the pudding, what would you do?" Harley sounds genuinely curious if not dastardly cheeky, he can picture the lowered lashes and the grin.

"Decide if I need a spoon...probably lick it off you starting at those wonderful tits of yours. Why? Do I gotta start fasting?" He hopes he sounds as casual as he's trying for [he doesn't]. 

[he steadies her with a thumb at her spine, can't help but ponder both the power and the fragility in the shifting muscles] 

What she says next shatters a little piece somewhere, probably in the kidney. Maybe it's a kidney stone. 

"I coulda fallen for a guy like you." It's said so wistfully, she sighs a little, shoulders relaxed beneath his hand. His guts churn and all he can do is slap on the gauze, earning a yelp in return, and when she whips around to face him [tits shaking, god _damn_ ]--

Her mouth is buttoned up in a scowl. "What was that for?! Have ya ever heard of a decent bedside manner? No wonder Dog Chow doesn't wanna patch ya up." She lifts her chin, looking all the more sour. 

"Do you two get together and have shit talk Badou days? Maybe he just appreciates blondes...or you're a dude." Food for thought. But Badou's ready for her before she can even start the explicit detail of shit talking him with Heine, fists raised. 

Plucking a shirt from the floor, he tugs it over her head, mindful of the shoulder, and sits back to admire his work. Even compared to his slim form she's tiny, the shirt swamps her. A pigtail is askew and disheveled, there's color high on her cheeks, fingers latch into the hem of the shirt. Finally, he leans back on an elbow to stub out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray, his eye never leaving hers. 

"Well? You just gonna sit in that chair my brother probably fucked someone on or are you gonna get up here?"

He shouldn't laugh at how fast she shoots up because when she flops onto the bed he gets a fist to the gut that knocks the wind out of him. But it also knocks a wheezy chuckle from the bottom of his lungs. Harley's soft and pliant in his arms and when she looks up at him, curious and a little concerned as she gently touches his nose with the tips of her fingers, he feels warm all over. He takes the tissue out of one nostril, and though she wrinkles her own a little, she still leans up to plant a loud smackeroo right on the tip.

"Did you just kiss my nose?"  
"Yup, we're screwed." 

_Sheee-iiiiiit_. This girl is gonna kill him, probably. He kinda can't find it in himself to care when she snuggles up close, presses her face to his chest and gives a little satisfied sigh. He only lets her go long enough to yank his eyepatch off, then it's right back to both arms around her middle, settled beneath her shirt. 

All is quiet. All is content. He doesn't ask and she doesn't give the story [for now. he knows, over shitty cornflakes and stuff that'll give him five more cavities, she'll yak on and on about it, gesturing and getting milk everyfuckingwhere]. He closes his eye and settles in.

"It's not that the man didn't know how to juggle. It's just that he didn't have the balls to do it." 

Badou groans. 

"No? Then how 'bout this one--" 

It's gonna be a long night. 

[and he wouldn't have it any other way, the sappy fuck]  
[note to self, burn the bean bag chair asap]  
[or just give it to that green spandex fuck]


	4. shitty first (business) dates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pam and Aikuro and a business meeting.

One of the pleasantries and opportunities from the complex across the street [aside from the bountiful field of weed] was the overcast sky up above, and the towering city across from them. It's enough to take your breath away, if you're the romantic type.

Aikuro Mikisugi _can_ be that type, should the situation call for it. This time? Only halfway romantic. A beautiful woman, a wonderful lunch of veggies and pasta, and a scene like this is enough to make the most skeptic shudder up the spine. 

The nudist bitch (Aikuro) uncorks a bottle of some fancy-ish wine [in the variety of douchebags trying to pose], pours the contents into two spotless glasses with a flick of the wrist. 

Poison Ivy raises a crimson brow at him, moue of her mouth curved up.

"Wine? At noon? That seems rather bold of you, for a mere acquaintance interested in business."

Aikuro isn't exactly sure of that. The woman oozes pheromones, and though this is for his DTR, he's afraid by the end of this date it will be 'DTR who?' for him. Instead of saying this, he peers across the table at her through his lashes, voice low,

"I figured a woman as refined as yourself would appreciate a little class with our meal. Was I wrong? That _is_ what hypothesis is for." 

She doesn't appear too compelled by his tone, nor the way his nipples peak and twinkle through the starch white of his shirt front. She merely smiles, as if delighted, and lifts the glass stem with delicate fingers [he knows can slice through meat if she wants to]. 

"Your theory was correct in practice this time. Good work, Doctor." 

Aikuro chuckles so the lipstick stain doesn't draw his eye too far. "Ah good, I thought so. Besides, a nice drink on the palette paves the way to good business transactions." 

She laughs as though he could be the dirt beneath her feet, feeding her 'babies' and growing them as tall as man. He doesn't know if he'd rather that than this. 

But he, in turn, grins like he's got the edge of her top between his teeth. 

"Despite being a doctor myself, I don't fancy pitting machines against, or with, my babies. Natural is better." There's a challenge in those green eyes, orbs that alight brighter than any artificial light in the darkness. 

[ah, but it's midday, isn't it]

The nudist bitch takes the moment to fork over a forkfull of pasta into his maw, takes his damn time before answering in a way that's not only dubiously appropriate but also businesslike. 

"It isn't the most conventional, I'll give you that. But doesn't the knowledge seeker within you _relish_ the thought of the unknown? Of discovering something extraordinary? Think of how many plants you can save if you do this." 

The dangerous glint in her eyes remains, but the curve of her mouth dips slightly, like she's thinking. Or at least pausing long enough. 

"Within me, you say. Are you so sure Mother Nature hasn't claimed me all for herself...? You might not be able to reach me anymore." 

Neither of them peer down until Aikuro's hand clasps over hers, warm and inviting as his smile. 

"Why don't I be the judge of--" 

The other benefit that's another dubious thing are the residents of this particular complex. They come and go as they please, in no other pattern other than stupid as fuck. This is one of those times, where the older Nails brother stumbles up the stairs to the roof, passes peagreen eyes over the scene, and smirks. 

Poison Ivy's hand slides out of his so fast his head spins, and her shoulders hunch, doing wonderful things to the curve of her breasts in her top. 

"Soooo, you're trynna get a little uh, pollen going up here, of all places? That's great and all, and on any other day I'd sit back and comment, with popcorn, but y'see, we had an appointment." 

The color that bleeds across ivy-green skin is something to see. Aikuro wonders if David even notices what he does to her, how she ignites like a tire fire. 

"As far as _you_ should know of any of my business, you're trespassing. We don't have anything today-- the shipment won't be ready until tomorrow. You got your days mixed up again you addle brained idiot! I ought to string you up by your spleen..." 

When she gets up to leave him at the table, Aikuro feels cold but oh, oh that fire is enough to keep him warm just a little longer. Perhaps it won't work out this time. Just when he thought he was getting somewhere, too.

"You're gettin' kinky with the vines _again_? That's gotta be great for business...can't say my spleen will, that thing's as bad as my liver. What's it even for, great nerd queen?" 

As Aikuro pillows his chin in his palm and watches Poison Ivy summon one of her many babies to devour the Nails man, he can't help but think this isn't a terrible detour, either.


	5. not exactly a cheerleader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a clown and an eyepatch walk into a disaster

Badou's never truly experienced the bliss and romance that is another body asleep in his bed. Curled up next to him, sapping at his warmth, maybe hands entertwined all intimate-like. It's for the movies, the birds and the pussies, for rom-coms. It doesn't happen in this trash of a city, in his trash sty of a life even pigs wouldn't eat out of. 

[correction: the life, not eating out of his--]

"Give me the butt...." 

The info broker never thought his slumber would be interrupted by anything other than a blaring car alarm or a break in, either. The stray dog threatens to shove an alarm clock in his eyesocket daily, stray cats turn their noses up at curdled milk he sets out....it had to be a stray goddamn clown who is currently wrapped around him like a jetpack. Soft blonde locks tickle the back of his neck where she's diligently pressed the side of her face, cheek nuzzling; she could take off into the atmosphere at any minute. 

It isn't an intruder in the dark who makes him laugh, eyelid crinkled with stray slumber and mirth, no. 

"You're talkin' in your sleep again, Creepy," Badou rumbles, smile cracked at the corners of his mouth. Unwilling to lose this closeness, he rolls over onto his stomach, arm steady around Harley's middle, close enough to lay the flat of his palm along her ribs. 

[he can count each little scar between them, gently press the pad of his thumb there and scowl and vow to hate clowns forever] 

Harley, in turn, giggles in her sleep, the breath pushing a string of drool anew from the corner of her lips. Her make-up's caked on, he will hear that bitch-fest in the morning over soggy cereal, and it doesn't bother him as much as he thought it might. 

As if he ever gave thought to it. 

Thanks to the change in position, Badou is rewarded with a squeeze of his ass, Harley's mouth stretched into a grin that should by all means split her mouth. Fingers pinch and rub along the fabric of his underwear, and when she opens her mouth Badou about falls out of the bed. 

"....There's just _so much_ of it!" 

His entire being shakes with laughter he holds in his chest, bubbled like a balloon, till his cheeks [the ones up there, thanks], go red, till he hides his face in her hair. Harley Quinn is the only person he knows who can laugh so sweetly in her sleep over someone's ass. 

Instead of rolling on top of her and waking her up so, so sweetly with his mouth and fingers, Badou nuzzles his chin along her forehead, sighs like this is a weary expedition. This must be what this bliss bullshit is about: the warm fuzzies that tumble around in his belly, the way his cheeks [all four of them....] must blush red at her words, the way her hand hasn't moved an iota from gripping his ass--

This is the sappiest fucking shit.

"We're so _screwed_ ," he whispers harshly into the night. Funny how his stomach does a giddy flip-flop that pulses where his hand palms across her ribs.


	6. I promised boy I'll never let you see me cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is: you knocked furiously on my door to tell me to stop having loud sex but when i appear fully clothed in front of you, we both are disturbed by the thought of it being the old lady from above
> 
> Butch's first encounter with the Nails brothers will go down in legend.

Butch thought once he'd graduated to field agent within Team Rocket's honorable ranks he'd have exciting adventures: capture legendary Pokemon, fuck off with a gym leader's coveted team starter before it inevitably beats his ass into next month-- break out of prison every week. This is what he was looking forward to in his life of crime. A good, rotten life awaited him and he ran out to meet it.

What he should have expected was doing Cassidy's homework for her (still) at twenty eight years of age, hunched over a table in their modest (crumbling) apartment while she's out doing whatever it is she does all day [fuck with people but not fuck them too much because as gross as she is Cassidy remains delicate in his heart....pure like unused tp]. His back aches and as he splays his arms up above his head, spine arched, he hears it.

 **\--thudthudthudthudthud** \-- " _aaaaaAAAHHHHH HARDER! WHO TOLD YOU YOU COULD CRY? THAT'S TEN MINUTES FROM NOW, KEEP UP WITH THE SCHEDULE!_ "

Their tv is in the kitchenette...off, unless whatever ghosts or Ghost Pokemon circle the building have decided to play. Maybe he can entertain the idea of that ninja from downstairs-- no, no somehow the thought of him scheduling fucksessions is worse. 

"Ul-ulllp..." Butch whimpers, fingers shoved against his mouth to block the onslaught of vomit that threatens to spew just at the thought. A few calming breaths later and the ominous thudding hasn't ceased. The tell-tale sound of a whip, perhaps of cloth or straps, striking wet flesh sounds. 

Fingers in his ears won't help (oh ew they smell a little like puke..), Enya was never meant to be heard along to the beat of cock-- Butch all but tears his hair out of his head. [but then again how will he match Cassidy's impeccable style if he goes and does that? Travesty]

That's when he hears it. Knocking at the door. Dark eyes flicker to the clock on the table only for him to realize nope, there is still sunlight in the sky. Cassidy won't be back for some time. 

Small miracles exist though: his neighbors haven't stopped fucking so with natural deduction it isn't them. 

A red haired man with heavy scowl-lines and a baseball bat dangling from his fingers is not what he expects, nor is the other redhead with an eyepatch and his phone shoved just under Butch's nose. 

"You the walking Moose abortion that's makin' that ruckus?" Says the first man with a pointed tap-tap-tap of the bat. 

Butch is so floored for a moment he can't speak, not until the second man chimes in.

"What are you, fifty years old? No one says that anymore."

"Moose abortion?" 

"No, numbnuts. Ruckus. God, who raised you..."

"Our mother, a very lovely lady with an even greater mustache, _how dare you_ \--" 

The two men didn't have to start grabbing at the collars of each others shirts for Butch to figure they were going to fight [and that they're brothers], but they decided to anyway. Sure was nice of them.

"Whoa, whoa, hey-- I'm not a Moose anything. Or-- or an abortion either, I guess. That ain't me, whoever it is," he finally pipes in before blood is shed at his very own door. He waves his hands as if waving a white flag, a white pair of undies, and that's when the noises increase. 

With dawning horror three sets of eyes flicker above to the ceiling where the landlady's office resides. They all know deep, deep down at the bottom of the building, perhaps in the foundation itself, there resides a secret sex dungeon.

The second redhead, the one with an eyepatch like some kind of really cool modern pirate, looks green around the gills. He harrumphs, and to further prove he's unmovable, stuffs his phone back into his pocket.

"You'd think the police would put a lockdown on that rusty pussy already. Can't even enjoy a beatdown for Youtube anymore," he mutters, utterly despondent. His pores are blocked, his skin is oily, his life is not rejuvenated. 

The man who was going to knock Butch's dick back inside his body is of similar wilted spirits, slumped shoulders and what is definitely a manly pout on his face. 

But then, then, he does something that makes Butch's heart quicken. He pushes back his hair, slicked back just so, and at the same time pops a cigarette into his mouth. Without a care, his world narrows down to Butch, his brother, and the cigarette. 

Green eyes find his.

"Wanna have a smoke?"

It takes him a second or two because holy shit that was cool, man, MAN! Butch manages to say.

"Yeah, man. Let's get outta here before we go deaf from this." 

And so that's how he finds himself stooped on the fire escape on the fifth floor with the Nails brothers talking about incredibly manly, important things.

"Dude she ain't a furry-- that suit doesn't have a tail on it. She's just a thief. And she's hot," Badou was saying. He's on his fourth cigarette, which Butch only knows because he's been rapt at attention. 

Dave is the one soaking in all the attention though. The plume of smoke that slips from his mouth is shaped like a shitty, lopsided halo. 

"I don't know the meaning of the word. All I care's about is her. Her feelings."

Holy fuck, Dave is such a cool guy. He must get so much pussy, it's outstanding!

"How's her ass feel in that? I mean does she have swamp ass? Can she breathe? She's gotta think about that no matter how many diamonds she's got shoved up her pussy." 

Butch feels as though his mind, and his possibilities, have been blown wide open like doors. With this friendship he thinks he's cemented, he will soar above a Lot of Shit.


	7. fuckboys become fuckmen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gai is quite nervous for his next beautiful friend date with Kakashi, so he asks for a little help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't find the Sugar Pine 7 vid this is based off of, but please go watch them. Please

To say Badou hates his living situation is an understatement. It’s like saying meals from those meal-in-a-box places don’t know what a single serving for a human being is. Their clients clearly aren’t real. 

And Badou’s been ready to move out since he realized he’d have to share a place with his brother again. After swearing in spit and rug-burns that no one would get bowl cut in the middle of the night, the usual stank applies. 

The homestead is only as trashy as its occupants and their neighbors are the equivalent of dirty, moldy baby diapers wrapped in jockstraps.

Take the landlady and land-mass for starters. She’s got a sex dungeon where the sounds of the damned frequently seep through the air vents upstairs, she’s touched his ass three times (to Dave’s chagrin and envy for his fucked up ego) and her titty is constantly out. Him? Badou’s seen him a handful of times and too many handfuls of taint were involved to un-repress that experience.

“Could you hand me a refreshingly cold Ginger-ale, Nails-kun? I need it to wash this down.”

Another prime example is, who Dave suspects, the couple of Ninja insurance agents who live across the hall. Bad enough they’re heard, Badou’s currently seeing way too much of him and wishes he were blind in both eyes instead. He’d been convinced, nay, economically bullied into coming to their apartment to give Might Gai friend-date advice. 

Perched reluctantly on the (closed) toilet in the cushy restroom, Badou squeezes his eye shut, only to open its blood-shot contents. 

“Are you shitting me—wash what down? Can I just leave, clearly you need a minute to like, absorb whaaahyyyyyy do you have Miso soup in there? _SICK, ITS ALL YELLOW WHAT THE FUCK—_ “ 

Badou’s certain he’ll never stop screaming, not the way the soggy noodles, both in the bowl and between Gai’s legs, glisten in the fluorescent light. 

“Calm down, Nails-kun. I know you’re probably feeling envious of my muscles, even that one, but I’m the one who must humble myself and ask for your help. Just…I need some do’s and don’ts. This is our…50th date, and I’m nervous,” Gai says with real severity as he slurps noisily. 

“YOU’RE NOT FUCKING MARRIED!” Badou shrieks into the paint-peeled ceiling. Not for the first time in his life does he feel this same hopelessness and despair when it comes to their neighbors. Not for the last either. 

The ginger throws the Ginger-ale anyway and wonders if college would have made his life different. 

“Here’s rule one,” he rasps while pointedly looking for something pointy to blind himself, “don’t talk about his dog’s balls.” To Gai’s aghast expression:

“ _NO ONE FINDS THAT FLATTERING! NO NINJA OR INSURANCE AGENT FINDS IT A TURN ON AT ALL TO TALK ABOUT ANIMAL BALLS_!” 

Honestly, he’s beginning to wonder. They’re clearly not normal people, so anything is possible. Failing in grappling with his soul to stab himself with the scissors Gai uses to trim his brows, Badou moves on.

“Second, don’t challenge him to a contest. Just don’t do it. This is dinner, not hey-I-can-make-the-waiter-cry-before-you. Funny as hell, but won’t get you laid or get a best friend bracelet or whatever it is you want, maybe.” 

Why is he doing this? Why is he such a nice guy wh—

“ _\--YYYYYYYYY ARE YOU GETTING UP WHY ARE YOU GETTING UP WITHOUT EVEN GETTING THE GODDAMN TOWEL WHY ARE YOU SHOWING ME EVERYTHING—_ “ 

Badou doesn’t get to the third piece of advice until Gai’s tried on five outfits, two of which had the centerpiece being his…piece. He’s seen Gai’s taint three times. None of which happened in the bath. 

Sorely wishing at this very moment, draped over the dog-piss ridden couch, that gingers indeed lacked a soul, Gai comes strutting out. He’s suited up to the nines in a pair of slacks that aren’t even green, a button up polo and shiny shoes.

“You don’t even have socks and sandals,” Badou breathes gratefully, feeling his heart clench. Or some gas. This is so much better than the codpiece two outfits ago. Concurrently. The ginger rises from his feet, something like hope blooming. 

“Here’s rule three: just be yourself. Cause for some reason he's friends with you. The poor bastard. So that must be working in whatever parallel universe this is.” He even manages an encouraging smile.

“Course it is! It’s love, young Nails. Love conquers all!” 

The thumbs up is the last thing Badou sees before marching right out the door to throw up in the cheap potted plant in the hall.

Two days later, he found a card and a giftcard to Olive Garden under his door. It almost made up for the after images of Gai's taint he can still see when he closes his eye. Almost.


	8. the gang has an intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's for Butch's own good.

It hasn’t been an elephant in the room (or building) so much as it is a turd dangling from a butthole, just swinging in the air, oblivious to the precarious splash down below. The subject hasn’t exactly been hushed, either—when they see him, they slant side eyes to each other and try not to laugh. Well, some are respectful, most aren’t, and the rest just don’t give a damn. 

Within their boy gang (as Butch likes to call it, which is exactly why this is all his fault), they’re forbidden to mention it; all that’s allotted is a vague humming of agreement, mostly just sound that sounds somewhat positive and maybe this side of attentive. 

But now they’ve all gotten together in one of Agatha’s rooms that isn’t drenched in the aura of death, sex, and despair. There aren’t even free snacks available, that’s how serious this is. And Badou has a very important job he was volunteered for. 

“So it’s a chocolate one, right? With Cass’s signature and kiss mark on the bottom? I wonder what I did to deserve this…” Butch is practically thrumming with excitement, the poor, stupid bastard. Badou lights a cigarette, his fourth within the hour, to keep his irritation at bay. 

As usual he’s the one doing the bitch work. Dave gets to just sit his ass around and do nothing. 

“Yeah, man, a chocolate one, all for you. You’ve been working real hard uh, catching those Pokethings and cutting your bangs and shit. Gotta celebrate it.” 

And because he’s Butch, he grins, and believes him. 

There isn’t guilt in Badou’s heart. Just weariness. Regret, for living in this building. 

When he pushes his friend through the door, the residents of their crappy building crowd them, some surrounding the doorway to ensure no one escapes. There goes Badou’s plan to slip out.

“Intervention, intervention, intervention!” They shout, hopping around Butch’s quickly transitioning expression. Surprise, confusion, and finally, a crestfallen crescendo of disappointment.

“You said Dave was gonna be in the cake,” he whines to the younger Nails brother.

Badou takes a seat beside Harley, who looks delectably cute in her glasses, hair pinned up on her head. “You wouldn’t have come otherwise.” He doesn’t question the subject matter because…Butch is gross, and so is Dave. 

“I wouldn’t have come otherwise if you hadn’t promised crying,” Agatha growls from her perch on one end of one of the couches she has crammed in there. Crammed, just like her cootch. “So get to it!” She adds. 

“Alright, calm down, everybody. Bob, buddy, we’re all here cause we care about you,” Harley begins, her voice softer than velvet and as smooth as a shrink’s. Makes sense, seeing as she was one. 

("It's Butch!" is overturned with the oncoming noise)

“Speak for yourself,” Pam grunts, and fluffs up her hair when all eyes in the room flicker to her. 

 

“Now Pam-a-lamb, we talked about this,” Harley wheedles, her big blue eyes shimmering. In that moment, Badou, like most moments, truly admires her grit. “We’ve got to help him! It’s good for team morale.”

“We ain’t a team,” Watson burps, and wipes his mouth with his own mustache. It gets in his nose a little, and Badou tastes a preview of vomit in his mouth. Or maybe the mustache is coming from his nose? Is it nose hair? One can’t tell. 

“We just live together and I was told there was gonna be cake too!”

“You and your forty days, nights, and tits don’t need any more cake,” Agatha hisses. 

“You’re one to talk about your tits—we should have this intervention about spreading the glory around—I’d say if your mammories weren’t as dry as my ass is sandy,” Watson fires back. 

David T. Nails, the other man of the hour, the organizer for this bullshit, finally makes his peace.

“Guys! Chill the fuck out. We have a mission here—so put your mammories and your saggy balls on the backburner, into the void, and never bring them up again for the love of all this Holy.” 

Somehow, someway, this works. Even as an adult, Badou’s in awe of the way Dave takes charge. He isn’t sure if it’s charisma, or his giant forehead. Either way, Watson and Agatha are silent, and even Poison Ivy has no further complaints.

Butch is in tears, “You guys really do care about meeeee!” 

“OF COURSE WE DO, MY LITTLE GERANIUM!” Might Gai bellows as tears streak his own face but he doesn’t bother to wipe them away. Instead, he draws Butch into his comforting bosom and the two weep together.  
For some reason Gai has decided to brand them with unfortunate flower nicknames. Badou doesn’t want to think about his.

“I’m going to throw up, I taste it…it tastes like Caesar Salad,” Agatha gasps and gulps, truly green in the face. 

“You mean tossed salad you had off the whimpering little twinks you have in here,” Watson, never missing an opportunity. 

Everyone’s mostly accounted for, barring Kakashi, that ninja fuck, who outright refused to attend no matter how many puppy dog eyes from Harley and Gai. However there is one resident who has remained silent until now. 

Cassidy sits on the opposite side of Butch, who peeps at her from between Gai’s rumbling boobage. He wants her approval, her love, The Puss. 

Plump pink lips part, Butch hangs off her every word.

“Take the fucking earring off. It’s on the gay ear.” Her advice hangs in the room like doom, like gloom, like the sound of Dave’s muffled laughter in the background. 

The reaction is instantaneous. Butch bolts from Gai’s safety, safetitty as it were, fingers dig into the tiny gay as hell loop in his ear, and he flings it in the air. 

Dave claps, Gai whistles, and Agatha closes their session out with:

“Get the fuck out of my room.” 

She shuts the door on them with gratitude (to be rid of them) in her heart, which leaves the remainder of the group out in the cold. The heater hasn’t kicked in yet. 

“Drinks?” Badou suggests, gaze flickering from the door to his companions.

Dave grins, true pride in his eyes as he turns to look at Butch, folding his arms around both their buddy and Ivy in turn.

“Drinks!” They all chorus. A pact is made to hereby make sure Harley isn’t lost. Again.

“I’m the one that looks good in earrings,” Cassidy snidely shoots this comment at Butch, who’s lower lip flips over his top in a pout.

“But,” she concedes, “the ear’s better than a chain gang gold necklace.” 

Badou can practically hear Butch’s boner in a tizzy over that. It’s a good thing drinks are on the way so he can forget all this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no the freaking gay ear is stupid  
> yes I can hear Dee, Charlie, Mac and everybody screaming 'intervention' at Frank in that iasip ep


	9. Butchies (2019)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter is hard and unrelenting and merciless-- but sometimes it brings about opportunities that wouldn't happen if fate itself farted.

There are only so many things one can do to keep warm when you live in what should by all legal accounts be a condemned building. Hot water bottles and three pairs of socks, microwaving your underwear until you don’t know if the holes are from radiation or you. Even doing laundry is more beneficial to all the moving energy during these times. Of course, when your landlady (?) is passed out downstairs in the laundry room against the door again, it makes chores impossible. After checking to make sure she’s not dead [the rock-paper-scissors contest to see who’d call the morgue is something no one looks forward to], Butch marches back up to his shared room, compiling a list of blankets he’s going to steal. 

The space heater is, naturally, in the middle of the living room and not hogged in Cassidy’s [after the last time she caught her bras on fire, may they rest comfortably in hell] so it’s the perfect place to camp out. 

Equally naturally the moment he walks in the frigid air is noticeably not from his partner’s cold gaze but from the draft their space heater had spared them from. 

“Any reason Tiny’s dead?” 

“It’s a piece of crap,” Cassidy’s quick to hiss out, her arms crossed over her middle in a sign of Not wanting to Talk about it. “Everything dies sometime.” 

Count on his partner to be morbid during the most wonderful season of the year for some. The question of what he’s going to do about his freezing [blue] balls is on the forefront of his mind and front throughout the rest of the evening, during dinner when a meatball tumbled down Cassidy’s shirt, and as his dead-eyed gaze follows the latest baseball game on tv. His team is winning, but he feels nothing but the chill of oncoming death. 

Soon enough the time has come. The television is switched off. Dishes are piled in the corner for him to wash tomorrow as expected. Cassidy, warm and sleepy at his side, is all long limbs as she rises fluidly from the couch, cracks her back, and turns in, ponytail swinging. 

Dread seeps into his belly. Despair encircles him. He wonders if Dave would let him stay with the brothers, and all at once he feels heat blossom to his cheeks. No, no, that wouldn’t be hard boiled! 

Cassidy pokes her head in. “Are you coming?” 

Angels sing and Butch suddenly knows what it’s like, that coveted ‘and they were roommates!’ She’s in the ugliest long tshirt known to man and mascara is caked to her eyelids but this is heaven. 

God, he’s so blue balled he’s got half a chub going from the thought of spooning. 

[okay but he always has a chub at the thought of spooning] 

Cassidy doesn’t even lay ground rules, too tired and toes too cold against the backs of his thighs for this kind of care. Butch is sure his heart throbs against her back where his chest is pressed. This is exactly how 16 year old girls and Butch imagine losing their virginity. The only thing missing is a rendition of ‘Wonderwall’ by Oasis. 

She mumbles to herself, squirming, making herself comfortable and Butch overtly aware of every single instance soft, bare skin brushes against his. His partner is stupidly adorable and sexy and he struggles to keep his arms stiffly at his sides, in fear that he’ll wrap them around her to squeeze her tight. 

For once in his life all is well. He’s got a full belly, he’s warm, tipping his head just so ensures he gets a whiff of Cassidy’s hair (pineapple shampoo)—completely satisfied in the dark. 

He’s awakened from his deep slumber at the touch of something on his feet. Giggling, he lightly presses the toes of one foot into Cassidy’s thigh. “Stop, Cass. ‘m trynna sleep, even my boner’s sleepy…” 

When there’s no cute retort from her, Butch dozes again until the pressure turns into what is definitely crawling beneath the blanket. It isn’t sugarplums that dance in his head, but visions of the bathroom scene from Ghoulies (1984) screech to a halt and though he doesn’t want to, he isn’t a coward. 

With shaking fingers Butch lifts the covers. Two glowing red eyes come closer and closer and all he can do is scream until he’s hoarse, until a little pee comes out and all at once there is something furry sticking to his face? Claws dig into either side of his temples, his screams are muffled, and he’s down for the count. He isn’t sure if he passes out because a moment later he’s on the floor and a familiar voice, an angel’s voice, punctuates the removal of this ghoul—

“Eugene, come on! We talked about this. You can sleep on your pillow by mommy, okay?” Cassidy coos at the kerfuffled Raticate where it’s rocked back and forth in her arms, all snuggled up in her bountiful bosom. 

In a kerfuffle like it hadn’t tried to actually murder Butch! “That little bastard tried to kill me!” He howls, and to his credit there aren’t tears pouring down his face. Eugene probably tore into his tearducts. 

“You’re in his territory, what do you expect!” She cocks a hand on her hip, oblivious to the smug look the rat bastard shoots Butch’s way. “Either deal with it or find somewhere else to sleep.” 

His heart’s never been so broken, not so broken since the first time she told him his hair color looks more like baby barf than green eggs and ham. The sad part is, he isn’t surprised. When is _he_ going to be _mommy’s baby_?! 

Not tonight.

Badou Nails isn’t a heavy sleeper by any means; between investigations that could get him killed, long nights and an even shorter life span thanks to his current residence, there is not a moment to spare being caught unaware. Which speaks a lot for how he managed to get up, take a piss, and only notice the other body in his bed after crawling back beneath the sheets. 

He chuffles and sighs, reaches for what he assumes are long legs, big tits and an even bigger heart.  
What he sees is shit green hair and the teary brown eyes of one Butch, the trio of their group.

“Why the fuck are you in here?! _HOW did you get in here_?!” Badou demands, highly offended he isn’t Harley, more so than offended he managed to break in. 

“Dave let me in,” Butch mumbles, his lower lip wobbling dangerously. He thumbs at the top of that sheet in that way he does when he’s acting pathetic. 

Badou lets his head hit the pillow. He sighs. “Why not sleep in Dave’s room?” 

His pillow is retrieved and shoved into Butch’s mouth after his answer: “It wouldn’t be right. Not before the wedding.”

**Author's Note:**

> for anyone subscribed to me............................ i'm sorry


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